LIFE.

Ir is not growing like a tree

In bulk doth make man better be;

Or standing long, an oak three hundred year,
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere.
A lily of a day

Is fairer far in May,

Although it fall and die that night;
It was the plant and flower of light.

In small proportions we just beauties see,
And in short measures life may perfect be.

Ben Jonson.

MELROSE.

If thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright,
Go visit it by the pale moonlight;
For the gay beams of lightsome day
Gild, but to flout, those ruins gray.
When the broken arches are black in night,
And each shafted oriel glimmers white;

When the cold light's uncertain show'r
Streams on the ruin'd central tower,

When silver edges the imagery,

And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die;

When distant Tweed is heard to rave,

And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave, Then go-but go alone the while

And view St. David's ruin'd pile,

And, home returning, soothly swear,
Was never scene so sad, so fair!

Scott.

BOOK V.

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.

OUR bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd,
And the sentinel-stars set their watch in the sky,
And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd,
The wearied to sleep, and the wounded to die.
When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,
By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain,
In the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,

And thrice, ere the morning, I dreamt it again.

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array,
Far, far had I roam'd on a desolate track,
'Twas in autumn, and sunshine arose on the way
To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.
I flew to the pleasant fields, traversed so oft

In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,

And knew the sweet strains that the corn-reapers

sung.

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er,

And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart. 'Stay, stay with us; rest-thou art weary and worn!" And fain was the war-broken soldier to stay; But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.

Campbell.

THE EXILE OF ERIN.

THERE came to the beach a poor exile of Erin;
The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill;
For his country he sigh'd, when, at twilight repairing,
To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill.
But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion,
For it rose on his own native isle of the ocean,
Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion,
He sang the bold anthem of Erin go bragh.

Oh, sad is my fate, said the heart-broken stranger,
The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee,
But I have no refuge from famine or danger,

A home and a country remain not for me!
Ah! never again, in the green sunny bowers
Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet
hours,

Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers,
And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh.

O Erin, my country! though sad and forsaken,
In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore;
But, alas! in a far foreign land I awaken,

And sigh for the friends that can meet me no more;
And thou, cruel Fate! wilt thou never replace me
In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me?
Ah! never again shall my brothers embrace me!
They died to defend me, or live to deplore.

Where now is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood?
Sisters and sire! did ye weep for its fall?
Where is the mother that look'd on my childhood?
And where is my bosom-friend,-dearer than all ?
Ah, my sad soul, long abandon'd by pleasure!
Why did it doat on a fast-fading treasure?
Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall without measure,
But rapture and beauty they cannot recall.

But yet, all its fond recollections suppressing,
One dying wish my fond bosom shall draw;
Erin, an exile bequeaths thee his blessing,

Land of my forefathers! Erin go bragh!
Buried and cold, when my heart stills its motion,
Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean,

And the harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion, Erin, mavourneen! sweet Erin go bragh!

Campbell.

THE NIGHTS.

Он, the summer night
Has a smile of light,

And she sits on a sapphire throne;
Whilst the sweet winds load her
With garlands of odour,

From the bud to the rose o'er-blown!

But the Autumn night

Has a piercing sight,

And a step both strong and free ;
And a voice for wonder,

Like the wrath of the thunder,

When he shouts to the stormy sea

And the Winter night
Is all cold and white,

And she singeth a song of pain;
Till the wild bee hummeth,
And the warm spring cometh,
When she dies in a dream of rain!

Oh, the night brings sleep
To the greenwoods deep,
To the bird of the woods its nest;
To care, soft hours;

To life, new powers;

To the sick and the weary, rest!

Barry Cornwall.

WHEN THE WIND BLOWS.

WHEN the wind blows in the sweet rose-tree,
And the cow lows on the fragrant lea,
And the stream flows all bright and free,
'Tis not for thee, 'tis not for me,

'Tis not for any one here, I trow.

The gentle wind bloweth,

The happy cow loweth,

The merry stream floweth,
For all below.

Oh! the Spring, the bountiful Spring,
She shineth and smileth on ev'ry thing.

Where come the sheep? To the rich man's moor.
Where cometh the sleep? To the bed that's poor.
Peasants must weep, and kings endure

That's a fate that none can cure,

Yet Spring doeth all she can, I trow.

She brings the bright hours,

She weaves the sweet flowers,
She dresseth her bowers

For all below.

Oh! the Spring, the bountiful Spring,
She shineth and smileth on ev'ry thing.

;

Barry Cornwall.

THE SHEPHERD AND HIS DOG ROVER.

ROVER, awake! the grey cock crows;
Come, shake your coat, and go with me!
High in the east the green hill glows,
And glory crowns our shelt'ring tree.
The sheep expect us at the fold;
My faithful dog, let's haste away,

And in his earliest beams behold

And hail the source of cheerful day